


that's honestly one of your poorer traits

by tangereen



Series: bastard4bastard fics [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, evil sad tillsend content, made specifically to hurt eli :), references to some other tillsend fics, season 13 election results, tillman/dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 22:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangereen/pseuds/tangereen
Summary: His phone buzzed- no, it's Mike's phone. Mike , Tillman thought. His hands fell from his hair, ceasing to fist and tug at the unkempt fluff that had grown so long over the Grand Siesta. Mike's phone buzzed again and Tillman flipped it over to see text notifications from "mx. mayor." The top one read, "hey guess what :D." Then, "i can't believe we're back together!!!!!!" And then they keep coming: "i'm so happy" and "oh, gods, mike, i'm so sorry" and "i'm obviously not happy about tillz dude" and "i'm on my way now, want me to pick up anything?" and "ice cream?" and "you're probably saying goodbye, rn" and Tillman flipped the phone back over.
Relationships: Jaylen Hotdogfingers & Mike Townsend, Mike Townsend/Tillman Henderson, Tillman Henderson & Jaylen Hotdogfingers
Series: bastard4bastard fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2210328
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	that's honestly one of your poorer traits

**Author's Note:**

> here's how evil Tangereen can still win:

_Oh_. 

Tillman's eyes read the words on the ticker again and again. He checked Parker's twitter. He checked the maincord. He checked the wiki. He read the ticker again. And again. 

_Oh_.

His phone buzzed- no, it's Mike's phone. _Mike_ , Tillman thought. His hands fell from his hair, ceasing to fist and tug at the unkempt fluff that had grown so long over the Grand Siesta. Mike's phone buzzed again and Tillman flipped it over to see text notifications from "mx. mayor." The top one read, "hey guess what :D." Then, "i can't believe we're back together!!!!!!" And then they keep coming: "i'm so happy" and "oh, gods, mike, i'm so sorry" and "i'm obviously not happy about tillz dude" and "i'm on my way now, want me to pick up anything?" and "ice cream?" and "you're probably saying goodbye, rn" and Tillman flipped the phone back over. 

_Mike_ , he thought again. Mike, who was in the other room. Mike who was in the other room, not watching the election. Mike who was in the other room not watching the election because he was dead asleep on all Ambien and Nyquil and a few Benadryl, avoiding the stress of something exactly like. 

_Or maybe exactly this_ , a dark cluster of brain cells made Tillman think. _He doesn't want to be here for this_. _Just like when he was shadowed_. Tillman's stomach turned and he leaned forward to rest his spinning head in his sweaty hands. Was he starting to heat up because of the panic or was this how he was going back to the Hall of Flame? Would he just spontaneously combust in Mike’s living room? 

_Mike_ , he thought again, the idea slamming against the inside of his skull, trying to get out. Tillman stood. He turned right, toward Mike’s room, then turned around toward the door, then back, then forth, then back, then he was pacing the length of the living room, footfalls alternating between light, pensive and hard, panicked. Should he wake Mike up? Could he wake Mike up if he tried? 

There was more buzzing, but it was coming from Tillman’s jorts, not the coffee table. His own phone, he realized after a long moment. His hand hovered over pocket, the vibrations from the device a hair below overstimulating. It was a call, he could tell, from the pattern and length of the notifications. His pacing stopped and Tillman stood stock still save for his hand, which pulled the phone, saw the [REDACTED] caller ID, and motioned to answer. 

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

Uh, Henderson?” 

“Parker. Not who I was expecting.” Tillman’s voice was perfectly even, all emotion siphoned like blood into some other Tillman, some future Tillman. A Tillman that was going to have a very, very bad time. 

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

Yeah, weird. This is the first time I’ve ever called someone back. Do you think this counts as me killing you?

Tillman stammered out a slur of nonsense before settling on “What? Do you care?” 

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

What? 

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

Uh, it’s just weird.

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

So, I need you to go back. 

“To the Hall of Flame?”

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

Yeah. There’s a train. Don’t tell @TheSeaGarages. 

**BLASEBALL COMMISSIONER (@blaseball)**

Oops

An almost-laugh came from Tillman, his chest heaving in an approximation of emotion. “My last living act is going to be snitching on you to @BlaseballT. What a way to go.” The line went dead, but Tillman continued, “Famous for all the wrong reasons, hated by the league, not even going to say goodbye to…” 

_Mike_ , the thought came again, sharper, stabbing and scraping against bone, the pain forcing Tillman to turn toward his boyfriend’s bedroom door. _Mike_ , it demanded, pushing him forward as surely as burly arms at his back. _Mike_. His hand moved against his will, grasped the door knob, and turned. _Mike._

Mike was shadowed, the dark of the room broken by the sliver of light from the door but the dark of his condition undisturbed. He was sprawled out, diagonally, on the bed, one leg nearly over the edge and one arm thrown across his face. The blankets were in some non-Euclidean arrangement and the sheets were probably in another dimension altogether. 

Tillman froze in the doorway, his body his own again, thinking about the various impossible positions he had woken up in and the improbable ways Mike had wrapped around him. The annoying way he drooled when on extra sleep aids, the cover-hogging, the scratch of his beard anywhere and everywhere. The annoying way he always looked perfect when in the peace of sleep, the annoying way all his worry and tension smoothed when he wasn’t awake to appreciate it, the annoying way he only had nightmares when conscious. At some point Tillman had started crying. 

_Mike, Mike, Mike_. 

What was he going to do about Mike? Tillman took two steps into the bedroom and then one back when Mike shifted slightly in his sleep. After a moment, he took another step forward, careful to be quiet. Then another. Again and again. When he finally sat on the edge of the bed, Mike didn’t respond and Tillman let out a shivering sigh. He ran a hand through his partner’s hair, the viscus shadows clinging to his fingers but falling back to Mike when he pulled his hand away. 

The longer he sat there, the more Tillman felt the call. He was starting to heat up, a burning under his skin bubbling up. Maybe it was just the memory of incineration, maybe it was some blaseball rules bullshit. It didn’t matter. Tillman had to return. Tillman had to return now. He leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss to Mike’s forehead, then his left cheek, then his right. 

On his phone, he typed, “i love you so much dude and i’m so sorry i had to leave like this,” then erased it. He typed, “parker said it’s my turn to die twice,” then erased it. He typed, “i totally tried to wake you up to say goodbye, but i couldn’t, so it’s kind of your own fault i’m breaking,” then erased it. He typed, “at least you get jaylen back,” and accidentally sent it. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, the sound of Mike’s phone receiving the message audible in the otherwise silent apartment. 

Future Tillman became present Tillman and it all went to shit. His shoulders shuddered, his hands clenched, he squeezed his eyes shut but it was too late to keep the tears in. He tried to cover his mouth, but the weeping was quicker. It didn’t echo; it was worse that it was absorbed by the walls, leaving him totally alone. Mike still didn’t stir. The weeping became sobbing became choking as Tillman tried and tried to force it back down. He wanted to grab it, hold it, throw it, anything, anything, anything other than feel it. 

_Knock knock_!

The sound rattled in Tillman’s chest, the surprise pulling him out of his breakdown. 

_Knock knock_!

He pulled himself up from the floor - when had he fallen on his hands and knees? - and peaked into the living room.

_Knock knock kn-knock knock! Knock knock_. “Mike?” the door asked. 

“Jaylen?” Tillman asked the door. 

“Dude, open up!” 

Tillman crossed the room and opened the door to let Jaylen in. 

“Oh,” they both said at the exact same time, in the exact same inflection, their eyes meeting across the threshold. 

“Uh, come in, I guess.” 

“Thanks.” Jaylen took a few steps in and Tillman got a better look at her, the new her, the shadowed her. Garages, Talkers, Pies, Shoe Thieves, Hall Stars, PODS, Lovers, Magic, Fridays, Mechanics, dead, undead, dead again, undead again, debted, returned, cursed, godslayer, and now shadowed. And this close up, it all showed.

When was the last time they had been this close? They’d shared fields, but he was always walking off when she was stepping up. They’d been to the same parties, but she was always on stage being the best when he was in a corner being the worst. Did Mike always go out to hang with her or did she only ever come around when he wasn’t there? Was it on purpose? Did they hate each other? Tillman realized he didn’t know. 

“Hey, do we hate each other?” he asked. 

Jaylen snorted. “What?” She looked closer to hysterical than amused. 

“I mean, there was that time I killed you-”

“You weren’t the first! Besides you didn’t kill me, you were dead.” Jaylen composed herself, crossing her arms and looking down at Tillman, but in a weirdly warm way.

Tillman squirmed under her gaze. “Idk, like, we never hang out?”

“Huh, yeah, we don’t.” Jaylen’s shoulders slumped. “Guess that’s not going to change,” she said slowly, delicately. 

“Delicate” was not an adjective Tillman would ever have thought to apply to Jaylen Hotdogfingers. She was a brute on the field and the stage, ripped, with hands rough from pitching and calloused from playing guitar. She was tall, taller than Tillman at least, and has a weighty, intimidating presence honed from years as mayor, undead monster, and punk legend. Yet here she was, looking at him softly, speaking to him kindly. In the time Tillman had been processing, she had even reached an arm out and was gently patting him on the shoulder. She cared about him and he could feel it and he hated it. 

Tillman pulled away from her touch and stumbled into the door, his face doing the best to glare even as Jaylen’s reigned understanding and acceptance perforated him. He felt the boiling heat in him raise again, more physical and less emotional this time. A tug of finality demanded he follow it out the door. 

“Did you say goodbye?” 

Tillman paused, just beginning to give into the tug. He couldn’t look at her. The heat and pull got stronger but he couldn’t move. Jaylen was looking at him, his skin was burning, his head was pounding, his heart, his _heart, his_ **_heart, his_ ** **_heart-_ **

“TILLMAN HENDERSON.” 

The forceful voice pulled Tillman back to Mike’s apartment. Jaylen was standing between him and the door, back to him, face to a hulking figure, shrouded and obscured, with white eyes. 

“YOU HAVE BEEN CALLED BACK,” the Umpire informed him. Jaylen stood her ground between the two of them, not allowing them to cross the threshold. 

“He’ll go when he’s good and ready,” Jaylen said, all comfort gone from her voice, shadows coalescing around her hands forming ethereal blaseballs, ready to bean. 

“I’m ready,” Tillman heard himself say, in a ragged, pained voice. Blaseball rules magic or some bullshit. “I’m ready.” Even if he wasn’t, he didn’t have a choice. Even the thought of turning back to say goodbye to Mike was too painful to think, actually doing it was beyond impossible. 

In front of him, Jaylen took a half step to the side, turning just enough to be able to look at Tillman, who still refused the connection. “Tillman,” she said, but he waved her off. 

“I’m ready.” He drew himself to his full height, which wasn’t much but was more dignified than collapsing to the ground as his limbs wanted and having to crawl after the Umpire to his death. “I’m ready.” His voice sounded more human this time and Jaylen finished stepping out of the way. The Umpire had reacted as much as a statue. “I’m ready.” 

Tillman stepped out of the apartment and looked back, not a Jaylen, but in her direction. “Guess it’s your turn to take care of him,” he said and closed the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from bastard4bastard, not that you'd know that, since it hasn't been released. 
> 
> also I'm @TVBClaringbold on twitter, come suffer with me


End file.
